Wandering Girl
Authors: Glenyse Ward
Wandering Girl
Wandering Girl
Glenyse Ward
I would like to acknowledge the generous assistance of the Aboriginal Arts Board in providing funds to develop this book. Thanks to Jack Davis and Colin Johnson for the inspiration they have given me and the editorial help; also to the staff of Magabala Books for their time and effort. Finally and most importantly, thanks to my family for having the faith to urge me on.
G.W.
First published by Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation
PO Box 668, Broome, Western Australia, 6725 in 1987
Reprinted 1988, 1991, 1993
First Published in this edition, 1995. Reprinted 1997
Published with the assistance of the National Aboriginal and Torres
Strait Islander Bicentennial Programme
Website:
www.magabala.com
Email:
[email protected]
Magabala Books receives financial assistance from the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body, and the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission. The state of Western Australia has made an investment in this project through ArtsWA.
Copyright  ©  Glenyse Ward 1988
All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any process whatsoever without the permission of both the author and publisher of this book.
Illustrations by Paul Roseblade, graphics by Merrilee Lands
Cataloguing-in-Publication data
Ward, Glenyse, 1949-
Wandering Girl
ISBN 1-875641-24-6
1. Ward, Glenyse, 1949- 2. Aborigines, Australia - Women - Western Australia - Biography. I. Title.
994.10049915
CONTENTS
Running Whenever She Needed Me
For my mother, husband and children, and for all the Aboriginal women who, as girls, had to face hard times working on white people's farms in the Great Southern and other districts of their own country.
THE MISSION
The sun was gleaming brightly through my bedroom window as I woke from a restless sleep. I know I should have been happy like any other day. Outside my window was a perfect picture of nature. Spring was here again in all its beauty. The tuneful melody of the birds filled the calm air. The sky was blue and serene, not one cloud to cast a shadow over this beautiful day.
As I lifted myself up on my elbow to gaze out the window towards the hills that surrounded the mission, the aroma of wild berries came drifting past my nose. Yet I felt dispirited and sad, for today was the day I was leaving my home to work for white people.
You see in the early days of survival and struggle, there was a lot of hardship and agony amongst the Aboriginal people. Through the misguided minds of earnest white people we were taken away from our natural parents. This affected all of us. We lost our identity through being put into missions, forced to abide by the European way.
I was a baby when I was put into an orphanage called Saint Joseph's in Rivervale, run by the order of St John of God. When I became the age of three I was put into another home, called Wandering Mission. It was here that I spent the next thirteen years of my life.
The mission itself was very rich in nature, the whole surroundings were photogenic, set in a valley. We as little girls used to be very frightened of going near the hills to pick berries, as there were big caves up there.
The older girls would tell us there were devil-men living in those caves.
Mumaries
, they called them and they were all hairy and ugly and used to come out at night. If we were naughty they would come with a sack and get us, and put us in it and cart us away.
I just could not laugh today, thinking of how those big girls used to jump on my bed at night because my dormitory window had the best view of the hills. They used to tell us they could see lights flickering up there. The little hairy men were getting ready to come down! I put up with the pain of being half squashed because I felt safe with them all on top of me. Then one of the older girls would sing out, “Baalay - look out, they coming!” And there would be screams, kids crying in a mad dash to their beds. I'd be running with them and jump into my mate's bed, still crying.
The mission was run by the Catholic Church. The nuns, priests and brothers who were in charge of us were all of German descent. I remember when I first set eyes on the brothers. They seemed strange to me. We used to be frightened of them. They were very serious people, hardly ever smiling. They wore these things on their eyes, which looked so funny. And they wore big baggy pants, long sleeved white shirts and bits of string over their shoulders to hold up the baggy pants - braces!
The nuns wore about three or four dresses on them and all this cloth over their heads. When they walked towards us we would run away and cry. They all spoke in a strange manner, which was a broken kind of English. When we were naughty those nuns used to punish us, and instead of saying that we would get no sweets at night, they'd say, “You become no sweets tonight!” It took us a long time to get used to their language. In the end we used to run away laughing at it.
Our up-bringing throughout our childhood years was very strict. Everyday activities were done to the ring of a bell and with prayers. The main principle was boys and girls had to be kept apart.
We slept in separate dormitories: Boys up one end of the mission, girls down the other end. That went for everything else too - church and school and dining room - boys up one end, girls down the other! When we were allowed out to play in the fields, the boys had their ground and we had ours. We even had our own dams to swim in, and if you got caught talking to boys or were found where you were not allowed to be, you would get a severe punishment or a belting.
Severe punishment would be: locked in a dark room at night with only a lantern to see by. You were made to dam socks up till one or two In the morning. We used to end up nervous wrecks after that!
Our clothes were all made of khaki material, with rick-rack braid all around the hems. Our bloomers were made of Dingo brand self-raising flour bags. If there had been a prize going for fashion in those days I am sure we would have taken first.
Confession was every Saturday and everybody had to go. Sometimes I couldn't understand why - we had nothing to confess to! If only I had known in those days what I know today, I would have had something to confess.
Although the mission was run very strict, we had our good times and our bad. From the age of six upwards, we each had our duties. We had to help In the dairy with farm chores. The brothers used to look after that part of things and we had to help - milking, collecting eggs, feeding the pigs, going out with the brothers to feed the cattle, checking windmills and so on.
I used to hate feeding the pigs. They terrified me, though I didn't mind the little piglets, as we used to chase them to see how many we could catch. Nor did I mind milking the cows, but for their business. My job was to shovel it up. The other kids used to tease me about this.
The brothers handled the machine that separated the milk and cream but when they weren't around for a few moments we'd have a good feed of cream. Our job was also to lock the young calves in a yard while their mothers were being milked. We would climb on their backs and ride them around.
Whenever we got up to mischief, we set a smaller girl as our look-out to see if any nuns or brothers were coming. Soon as she sang out, “They're coming!” we'd be all busy doing our work. Only sometimes the look-out girl might have a grudge against one of us and not give the warning.
